if I dislike
myself, or purchase inferiority, am I made worthy? a unique question, on a
symbolic day, un-celebrating or instilling what’s inhumane. I gather an ideal,
where freedom is disputed, it’s matches & gasoline. by tunnel by
frustration by truer personality.
we might redefine
ourselves as souls caught in yearning, where most are left uncertain.
to feel flustered,
to engage freedom, as cornered by discomfort: sweet courage, terminal courage,
front page courage.
might become a mannequin,
or a pantomime, or a Malcolm X. might become a King Jr., marching aside Jim
Crow, might become an alcoholic. I might indict black women. it hurts as
alienation. most are wrestling pains.
it seems cathartic
to become isolated; it seems freedom; it allays a number of beatings; where it
endures its loneliness.
I’m reading The
Tradition. I’m walking hallways. I see Jericho Brown. such sweet torture,
pure presence, in an absent world.
I read Obit. misery
kept screaming. we undergo sorrow, somewhat divorced from activity. sheer
wailing most gracious affliction, we try to imagine a breakaway.
like a Phenomenal
Woman – those pillars reaching, tugging, pulling at intestines. to be body,
akin in spirit, with death courting the crib.
so vocal about it.
raging in terrors over it. our police white-washing blackness. to die come battle,
aside a myrtle tree, nearby a garden. mother established, father at her side,
our sins rinsed & forbidden to return. I am now human!
